The road less traveled is the road I’d like to be on. I miss traveling and wish I could take trips more often. Remembering places we’ve been makes me happy, and dreaming about the places I’d like to go stirs my imagination. And I love hearing friends tell stories of their journeys, envious though I might be.

Here are a few things–and there are many more–I miss about travel:

1. Adventure: Hearing monks chant in Tibet and seeing the Mt. Everest are the types of adventures I wish I could have more of. Finding myself in unfamiliar settings, being surrounded by people speaking another language, not knowing what surprises might lie around the corner–I love it all. I’ve probably been to more places than the average person, but far fewer than many travelers I know. After all, this blog is hosted on a travel website! It’s hard not to feel envious when I scan blog posts and read travel memoirs. So when people ask why we chose to adopt from Armenia well, for one–duh–travel!

2. Trying new food! Whether it’s yak lung in Tibet or Lahmajun in Armenia (oh Lahmajun, how I miss thee), enjoying unfamiliar cuisine is thrilling to me. Shave ice in Hawaii, Gouda cheese in Amsterdam, champagne in Epernay. Stinky tofu might not go down in the record books as a food I’d try again, but telling the story of Big Papa’s memorable stinky tofu encounter always makes me laugh. Or remembering our lunch with a lama–and being served hot water instead of tea. Even the Parisien waiter who stiffed us by giving us change in foreign currency from around the world, not Euros, on our first trip together to France–I’ve filed him in my travel memories under food.

3. Meeting people: I have met some really fabulous people while traveling, like Sergei, our favorite Armenian painter whose artwork is on the wall in nearly every room of our house. Or my dear friend Hripsime who lives in the city where my daughter was born. Even fleeting encounters have turned into longer correspondence, like Karla–the incredible photographer I met while whale watching in Baja. And I still think about how lucky I was to run into two female Swedish travelers while camping in Matala, Greece. They were my companions for only a few days, but I got to see and do things I otherwise might not have traveling solo on a Greek island.

4. Stepping out of my comfort zone: Shop at the same grocery store, drive familiar routes–the habits and rhythm of my days at home, while enjoyable, don”t deviate much. When I’m traveling, every day is a new opportunity to do something different, see something I’ve never seen before, get lost, haggle, discover something–about a new place or about myself. It’s fun to shake things up a bit, good for the brain and good for the soul. If we hadn’t turned left at that corner, we never would have found the perfect little park for having lunch. If we’d stopped before the last switch on that trail, we would have missed the mind-blowing view.

5. Disconnecting: In our uber-connected first world lives, we are always in touch. Sure there’s something comforting about knowing I can see a familiar face on Facebook with one click on my keyboard, but when I travel I find it freeing to be “out of touch.” I can’t check my email at 17,00 feet in Tibet and you know what, I don’t even want to. It’s a relief to put the news aside for a few days, a few weeks, and not feel compelled, compulsive even, about checking in on social media. My senses awaken and suddenly I’m in touch with so much more–the world outside.

There is something about standing at the top of the world that takes your breath away. Maybe it’s the elevation. At 17,000 feet and some change, there’s not a lot of oxygen in the air, particularly if you’re used to living at sea level, like I am.

Or, it could be the view. Not many people are lucky enough to have the opportunity I had: to look the Goddess Mother of the World, Mt. Everest, square in the face. Yet that’s exactly what Big Papa and I did when we visited Tibet in 2008.

Temperatures were in the teens, and there was nothing between us and the mountain of all mountains, except an open plain and a fierce wind. Being in Tibet, and seeing Mt. Everest, was unforgettable.

And so was the tea. Back at the Everest Hotel, we headed for the sole dining room and ordered up a big pot of chai. Sensuous aromas of cinnamon, cardamom, clove, ginger and pepper filled the air. I will never forget my first sip: warmth soothed my cold throat and the flavors were simply irresistible. Big Papa and I joyfully drank the entire pot with ease.

In much of the world, including Asia, Eastern Europe, parts of Africa and Brazil, “chai” means tea. Chai tea, frequently called “Masala Chai,” is an aromatic blend of black or green tea infused with warming spices and typically served with sugar and milk.

If you travel to India, Nepal and Tibet, where chai originated, you’ll likely see vendors peddling the tasty brew on street corners or at train stations. According to Ayurvedic tradition, chai boosts the immune system, enhances metabolism, relieves stress, aids digestion and sharpens the mind. Never mind that it’s also out-of-this-world delicious.

You can find hundreds of chai recipes associated with different locales, restaurants and even families. Preparation methods vary, too—some aficionados insist on boiling the tea, spices and milk together, while others take a gentler approach, briefly steeping the tea leaves and spices in hot water, then adding hot milk and sweetener last.

I still drink chai, though I’ve never had a cup that was as good as the chai we drank while traveling in Tibet. The Goddess Mother of the World had a way with tea. She worked her magic on our chai…and on us.

Note: If you prefer, omit the milk and sugar and offer them separately. You can also experiment by adding fennel seeds, coriander seeds, nutmeg, star anise, and lemon or orange peel to create your own unique chai blend.Want to take your breath away with more deliciousness? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!

Big Papa has an expression he’s fond of using.” I haven’t [insert phrase here] since the high slopes of Everest. For example, “I haven’t seen this many pigeons since the high slopes of Everest,” which is a true statement since we did indeed see pigeons at Everest Base Camp.

So this past Friday as we sat having lunch at Tom Douglas’ new restaurant, Ting Momo, Big Papa said, “I haven’t had yak like this since the high slopes of Everest.” And why wouldn’t he say that? Because the last time we had yak was on the high slopes of Everest.

Sitting in a Seattle café, cute as it was tucked into an historic brick building in Seattle’s gentrified South Lake Union business zone, is not like being in Tibet. And yak from the high slopes of Colorado, while tasty, didn’t hold a yak-butter candle to the real deal.

Maybe it was the fact that instead of sitting at a cozy table cradling a warm cup of aromatic Chai while waiting for a server, we had to belly up to the counter and place our order while an impatient blond staff member behind the register said snarkily, “What do you want?”

Or maybe it’s just the hard, cold reality that Tibetan food in Seattle is not the next best thing to being there. I know both Big Papa and I long to return to that magical place, but for the moment city yak is all we’ve got.

We each ordered momos, Tibetan steamed dumplings and a cup of Thukpa soup. Big Papa chose a can of Tibetan tea (made in Bellevue, Washington no less!) and I asked for a glass of warm Chai.

The thukpa was made with hand-pulled noodles, red pepper, shitake mushrooms and coconut milk. It was spicy with a lovely kick and tasty though I don’t remember thukpa like this when we traveled in Tibet.

I ordered the momo combo with two yak momos and two shrimp momos. Big Papa went yak momo all the way. The yak momos, in my opinion, were by far the better treat. Golden Colorado yak (yep, yak are trekking in the hills of the U.S.) were spiced with star anise, bay leaf and a cranberry on top. Cranberry? That seemed a bit odd to me. Tibetan fusion food, I guess.

My momos were middling. If this is as close to Tibet as I can get, I’ll visit Ting Momo again though I wish the Chai had been richer, the momos lighter and crispier, the staff friendlier. For $35, I hoped for a bit more enlightenment.

As I walked toward our car, all I could see were modern high rise buildings–there were no pilgrims circumambulating in prayer around me. Car exhaust replaced the sweet scent of burning sage hanging in the air. And sadly, very sadly, melt in your mouth momos and the high peaks of Everest were just a distant memory.

Inky blackness greets my eyes as I step outside our hotel’s front door. My skin prickles from the intense sharpness of the cold air. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see millions of stars filling the darkness, like a Pointillist painting. The Milky Way spills out in a cloudy haze. I feel so small, just one speck of life.

My husband, Big Papa, and I are spending the night at a hotel in Tingri, Tibet one stop in our trek from Lhasa to Mt. Everest base camp. Tingri has a population of approximately 523 and is at an elevation of 14,107 feet. The elevation combined with the pure, unpolluted skies gives us a view of our galaxy we’ll never forget. I’m sure if I just stretched my arm out an inch or two farther, I could touch the stars.

What a difference a seven-hour plane flight and a couple days of driving makes. Our journey began in Beijing. Traveling from this sprawling, polluted metropolitan city to Lhasa, the capitol of Tibet is a study in contrasts. As the Chinese tear down old Beijing, in its stead an uber-modern sterile hulk of a city rises out of the destruction. Change is afoot in Lhasa too, and some years from now, it may bear little resemblance to its former self.

But once the city of Lhasa disappears over the horizon, the Tibet which emerges has remained unchanged for thousands of years. The feeling of being in a place where the sights, scents and sounds are as ancient as time itself reverberates deeply inside my soul, like the rich bass voice of the monk chanting at Tashilhunpo Monastery, where we’d stopped just the day before.

Like most of our trip, the previous day’s drive to Tingri could only be described as surreal. We’d just finished a filling lunch in Shigatse and had been on the road for about a half-hour. A short distance in front of us, we see several trucks pulled off to the side of the road and a gathering of people. Tenpa, our Wisdom Tours guide, tells Chimi, our driver, to pull over so we can see what’s going on.

In the middle of a circle of local farmers and villagers we see a bald-headed, burgundy-cloaked Lama: not exactly what you might expect to see in the middle of the countryside. We sit and stare from safe distance for, a few minutes the Lama until notices us and waves us over to join him. We don’t know what to do, but Tenpa encourages us to go, so off we tromp across the field. “Welcome. Please sit down,” the Lama greets us in clear English. He motions us to sit, on the ground, in the middle of a group that has gathered around him. Several monks appear with thermoses of hot water and hot water only. We aren’t sure why we don’t rate a serving of tea. Plates piled full with momos: dumplings with yak meat and vegetables inside, are being passed from person to person. Our lunch is still warm in our bursting bellies, but when you’re sitting in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Tibet at the invitation of a Lama, what are you going to do?

So, we eat and chat with the Lama, feeling very conspicuous amongst all the local townspeople and the Lama’s entourage, whose impromptu roadside assembly we interrupted. The Lama speaks English quite well and tells us he now resides mostly in Italy. We share that we have traveled all the way from Seattle, Washington in the United States. It feels other-worldly to be chatting with a monk while munching on momos in the midst of the Tibetan wild.

Tenpa and Chimi stand, looking uncomfortable, a short distance from the gathering. Fifteen or twenty minutes pass before we excuse ourselves. Whether our hasty retreat is perceived as rudeness, we don’t know, but we feel torn between our allegiance to our guide and whatever obligation we unknowingly entered into by accepting an invitation to share a meal with a Lama.

Heading down the road once again, Chimi deftly speeds around the curvaceous mountain passes without a moment’s hesitation, swerving within inches of precipitous drop-offs. Big Papa and I sit in the back seat of the Land Cruiser. Our eyes wince with each close call. Tenpa reassures us that Chimi knows exactly what he’s doing and besides, he tells us, it’s only the “crazy Chinese drivers” who get into accidents.

Tenpa starts talking and shares his opinion of the Lama we’d just met. He says he knows of “this Lama” and believes the Lama’s reputation is one of ill repute. He describes shady and politically-tinged quarrels between the Gelug, or Yellow Hat sect, the sect to which most Tibetans and the current Dalai Lama ascribe, and this Lama. Supposedly, this Lama broke from the Gelug sect and tried to form his own sect and followers. From Tenpa’s perspective, this Lama was not a “real” Lama.

Big Papa and I are a bit confused. Why pull our truck over to the side of the road and encourage two naïve Westerners to dine with a Lama if the Lama was of dubious distinction? Our experience feels a bit tarnished.

We ponder this turn of events, and our guide’s interpretation, as we venture higher and higher through mountain passes. Nomadic herders guard their yak and sheep, their forlorn and isolated tents perched on windblown precipices. Tiny villages, a dozen huts strong, pop up every so often in the formidable landscape. No one who lives in this remote and rugged terrain escapes the harsh hot summers or the endless frigid winters. To survive in this place speaks to the incredible tenacity and strength of the people who call the mountain regions of Tibet home.

Pulling off to the side of the road for one of our now infamous “nature toilet” stops, we are greeted by two children. They come running across the highway from their small village of eight or so homes. Their faces and clothing are dirty and they peer at us with eager curiosity. Soon they are joined by an older woman. Her face is lined with crevices as deep as the chiseled mountains that loom behind her village.

Tenpa interprets for us and we have a short conversation. She asks us where we are traveling from and what we do. I try to imagine Big Papa explaining software development to a woman who has spent her entire life in a remote Tibetan village at 16,000 feet.

She tells us she is 44 years old. I blink and attempt to absorb what I see versus what I hear her say. At nearly five years her senior, I look decades younger than she does. I feel guilty about the many privileges I so easily take for granted. The conveniences and wealth of in our westernized lives are likely unimaginable to this woman. By U.S. standards, our house at barely 1000 square feet is a tiny cottage. Yet, our humble home could encompass most of this village.

Before we depart, she asks if I would like to buy her silver waist belt. I am tempted but Tenpa tells us she is asking too much for it and we can get a cheaper price at a market. True, I think, but not with this story. I feel a bit regretful that I pass on her offer, but as we walk back to the truck, I see something sparkle in the dusty earth. It’s a crystal, a lovely gem possibly created in this spot where I stand. I pick it up and tuck it in my pocket, running my fingers over its smooth edges, happy to have a memento to mark this moment.

From Tingri, we make our way to Mt. Everest, or Qomolangma as the Tibetans refer to it. Qomolangma means Goddess Mother of the Universe, which is quite appropriate if you ask me. The scale in the Himalayas is difficult to imagine. Earlier in the day, when the mountain was completely covered in cloud, I pointed out a smaller peak on Everest’s flank to Big Papa, thinking it was Everest. It could have been: it was a sizeable mountain in itself, maybe 22,000 or so feet tall, with its own snowline, ridges and summit. It stood well apart from everything around. But come late afternoon, the clouds began to clear, and the upper slopes of Everest hove into view. Standing at base camp, at nearly 17,000 feet elevation, you realize how massive a peak it really is. We were already very high, but Everest’s summit towered two miles above us, and it seemed above everything else as well.

You hear about Everest being an “easy” climb, with hundreds of tourists led up it each year. While that is the case, standing there and seeing both the ridge and the “step” that Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary made their way up in 1953, and seeing the very high ridge where George Mallory and Andrew Irvine were last seen making their way towards the summit in 1924 before disappearing into clouds – probably clouds much like we saw that day – one gains a new appreciation for the immense effort and imagination it must have taken to make those early attempts. Everest might be “easy”, but it commands respect, even from those just sight-seeing like we are. After a couple hours of studying the mountain and thinking these kinds of thoughts, we tuck into our rock-hard beds at the Everest Hotel, without a working squatting toilet, showers or heat.

One of the most memorable moments on our trip occurs as we return to Lhasa from Everest the next day. Passing through Shigaste for a second time, we stop at the Gyatse Monastery. A few of the monks ask us to join them in conversation over a hearty cup of yak butter tea. Tenpa, Big Papa and I stand in the center courtyard chatting with them. Big Papa’s beard has been the subject of much attention during our Tibetan travels, especially amongst the monks. One of the monks asks if he can touch it and Big Papa says yes. The monk reaches out and, with a huge smile and much amusement, loudly growls “Ruff, ruff, ruff,” as he grabs the hair on Big Papa’s chin and gives it a thorough scruffing. Do beards remind Tibetans of dogs? We don’t know, but he is obviously having a great deal of fun.

As we leave Shigatse, Big Papa and I hunker down in the back seat of the truck, giggling. Regaling each other with our favorite stories from the trip, we recount our lunch with a Lama and the beard scruffing incident. We have visited soulful monasteries and have seen spectacular vistas, yet the memories that made the most indelible marks, are those where our lives touched the lives of others. In Tibet, it’s not just the altitude that takes your breath away. How many times in one’s life will two city slickers from Seattle have lunch with a Lama? Not many.

Thwap goes my hand, as I smack it down hard on the table, leaving one mortally wounded fruit fly. A remaining undamaged silvery wing twitches a bit before I flick my fingers and send the fly sailing over the table’s edge to its demise.

We sit in silence for a few minutes waiting for our meal to arrive at St. Clouds, one of our favorite Seattle neighborhood restaurants. Soon Big Papa is reveling in ribs swathed in barbecue sauce while I savor mussels bathing in coconut milk. Twenty or so mussels nestle inside my bowl. By Buddhist interpretation I am devouring a small village.

Steamy broth sends tendrils of heavenly spiced aroma to tickle my nostrils. I close my eyes, remembering. Mere days ago we sat at a café in Lhasa, Tibet.

The memory seems surreal, yet I can almost see the soft afternoon light filtering through the window of the café as I hold a warm cup of Masala tea in my hands. Its milky spicy fragrance surrounds me.

Outside the window, earnest merchants in the Barkhor haggle with persistent tourists over the price of prayer wheels. Weathered pilgrims chant while circumambulating clockwise around Jokang Temple. Smoke rises from branches of juniper placed on outdoor incense furnaces and mingles with the intense sweetness of yak butter candles.

As the sun slowly lowers itself to the horizon, the light becomes warmer and shadows are more pronounced. Magic hour is nearly upon Lhasa. Soon the walls of Jokang will be set ablaze in glorious hues of gold. Brilliant purples will creep into the turquoise blues of the sky.

I draw in a final sip from my cup, long and slow, letting hints of pepper and cinnamon dance on my tongue. Big Papa and I head outside, through the Barkhor, to the marketplace with our guide, Tenpa. We move alongside the throngs, cobblestones underfoot. Though there is no urgency in our steps, I feel as though I’m being swept through a canyon, one buffalo in a herd of many.Legend tells that in 647 A.D. the first Tibetan king, Songtsen Gampo, built the Jokhang Temple. Its magnificence quickly attracted thousands of Buddhist pilgrims. As a result, a trodden path appeared which grew into Barkhor Street.

Turning to the right, we amble along Zang Yuan Road, passing Jokang Plaza and then a Tibetan prayer flag shop. Sewing machines whir and nimble fingers connect the blue, white, red, green, yellow flags, which will soon adorn buildings, streams and mountain passes. Each color, arranged from left to right in specific order, symbolizes one of earth’s elements, blue for sky, white for air and wind, red for fire, green for water and yellow for earth.

A short distance in front of us, a monk swathed in a vibrant burgundy robe squats on a corner step. A bucket of fish, nervously swimming figure eights in their tight quarters, sits at his feet. The monk watches the fish intently, glancing up on occasion. He is slim of stature with ruddy bronzed skin and broad cheekbones. Wizened eyes peer upwards in our direction as he tilts his head. “Just a moment,” Tenpa tells us as he scurries over to the monk. We watch him press a few coins into the monk’s hand.

Tenpa rejoins us but says nothing. Walking a bit further down the street we ask, “What just happened?” He tells us, “That monk purchased those fish from Chinese Muslim merchants who sell them to be eaten. Tonight, on his way back to the monastery, he will stop and release the fish back into a stream.” Tenpa pauses for a moment and takes in a deep breath. “I gave him a bit of money to help with the cost of the fish.”

Big Papa and I think carefully about what we’ve just heard. We have seen Tenpa and other Tibetans eat meat, yak mostly, but occasionally chicken or pork. However, it has not escaped our notice that none of the cafés or restaurants we’ve visited list fish on the menu.

Later, during dinner, we ask Tenpa to help us understand why Tibetans eat yak, but not fish. He looks straight at us and says quite matter-of-factly, “Taking a life for such a small amount of meat is a waste.” His voice is tinged with slight annoyance. I’d venture he’s been asked questions like this innumerable times by countless travelers. It must puzzle and frustrate him that Westerners don’t comprehend this distinction.

A moment passes and I catch Big Papa’s gaze. I know exactly what he is thinking. With us, we’ve brought several items which we intend to give as gifts to our guide Tenpa and our driver Chimmi, at the end of our trip. A box containing smoked salmon was selected with Tenpa in mind. Although we’d heard Tibetans did not eat meat, we somehow rationalized that fish would be acceptable. In the U.S. there are many who identify themselves as “vegetarians,” and will not touch meat from a cow, chicken or pig, but will happily dine on seafood. For many years, I was one of these vegetarians.

What a rare treat, we thought. Smoked salmon transported all the way from Seattle. Certainly not something you would find in mountainous central Tibet. Little did we imagine that our carefully chosen gift might be received as an enormous insult by our gracious guide.

That night, back at the Shangri-la Hotel, we tuck the smoked salmon deeper into our suitcase, and our innocent ignorance along with it. By the time we’ve returned home, it is one well-traveled smoked fish, having flown 13,442 miles, the distance from Seattle to Lhasa and back again, not to mention the multi-day side trip all the way to base camp at Mt. Everest. This fish has been from below sea level to the top of the world.

I blink and open my eyes, returning to the moment. Big Papa is elbow deep in his luscious ribs. Outside the window, rain is pouring down fiercely. I see green and trees. I know the mountains behind the clouds are not the Himalayas. At tables on all sides of me, people are speaking English. I take a long, slow sip from my glass of northwest Pinot Noir just as I’d sipped Masala tea in Lhasa. A second glass, filled to the brim with tap water and ice, is right in front of me. It is the first time in nearly a month that I’ve been able to safely drink water that is not bottled. Discarded mussel shells lace the rim of my pure white bowl, like a necklace.

Om Mani Padme Hum. The words reverberate just below the surface of my conscious mind. I contemplate the meaning of this chant I heard hundreds, if not thousands, of times during our trip. According to Buddhists, this six syllable mantra means, “in dependence on the practice of a path which is an indivisible union of method and wisdom, you can transform your impure body, speech, and mind into the pure exalted body, speech, and mind of a Buddha.” After a journey of many thousands of miles in this life, I still have many miles and many lives left to travel.

“Breeep, breeep, BREEEP!” The sharp piercing staccato of our fire alarm fills the airspace. Big Papa and I are making Shepherd’s Pie from scratch and setting off the fire alarm is part of our annual tradition.

For each of the five Christmas seasons we’ve been a couple, Shepherd’s Pie has been on the menu. I got the idea since Big Papa is a ‘Shepherd.’ Now that I’m his Missus, I’m a Shepherd too. I searched many blogs and scoured cooking sites reading recipes and trying to find the one with glowing reviews. Gourmet Magazine, February 2001, Braised-Lamb Shank Shepherd’s Pie with Creamed Spinach was the winner.

This particular Shepherd’s Pie takes an entire day to create. The dish calls for several layers: mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, roasted carrots, and gravy. Mid-way through the day, our kitchen is piled a mile-high with pots and dirty dishes. It’s hard to believe all this mess will result in a truly amazing meal. Six hours of work later, all this divine deliciousness will land in one baking dish.

Big Papa helps. He picks off the pieces of lamb after it’s been roasted three times. Yes, three times. The roasting is part of the process which inevitably sets off the fire alarm. We laugh about the alarm and, truthfully, something would feel amiss without it.

A few herbs from our winter garden add backyard flavor: thyme and rosemary and sage (though sage is not listed in the recipe). Despite the prep being labor-intensive, it’s a relaxing way to spend the day. We open a bottle of champagne to drink while cooking and take breaks to open gifts or make phone calls to family.

Making Shepherd’s Pie for the Christmas holiday is one of the first traditions Big Papa and I started together. I like feeling a small connection to ‘shepherds’ who have come before us and shepherds around the world. Last fall, when we toured Tibet, we saw many shepherds high in the Himalayas herding sheep and yak. Stopping at one mountain pass, two shepherd boys approached us. Our guide, Tenpa translated for us and we told the boys our ancestors, many generations ago, were also shepherds.

As our Shepherd’s Pie bakes, it fills the Urban Cabin with a wonderful aroma. When it’s ready to eat, we light candles and sit in our cozy, deep red dining room to enjoy this meal. Big Papa picks out a good wine from our “cellar” – aka the dirt floor basement of the Urban Cabin. Maggie, the cat, sidles up to the table. We talk about Shepherd’s Pie making past. Remember last year when…each year has its own unique story.

I am completely at peace. Despite several challenges this year, we are so fortunate to be able to enjoy such simple pleasures: the Urban Cabin, a good meal and each other.
Braised-Lamb Shank Shepherd’s Pie with Creamed Spinach

Makes 6 generous servings
Active time: 1 hour
Total time: 5-1/2 hours

Ingredients

5-1/2 pounds large lamb shanks (4 large)

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 small onions, trimmed and quartered do not peel)

1/2 cup fresh thyme sprigs

1/2 cup fresh rosemary sprigs

1/2 cup dry white wine

1-1/4 cups beef broth

1-1/4 cups water

3 pounds russet (baking) potatoes (6)

1-1/4 to 1 1/2 teaspoons salt

3/4 cup whole milk

5 medium carrots, cut into 1/4-inch-thick slices

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

Creamed spinach

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

Special equipment: a ricer

PreparationPrepare lamb:

Preheat oven to 450°F.

Put lamb shanks in a large metal roasting pan, then rub with oil and season with salt and pepper. Arrange onion wedges around lamb. Roast lamb in middle of oven 40 minutes. Turn shanks over, scatter with herb sprigs, and roast 40 minutes more.

Pour wine, broth, and water into roasting pan. Cover pan tightly with foil and braise lamb until tender, 45 minutes to 1 hour. Transfer shanks to a plate and remove and discard skins from onions. Pour cooking liquid (including onions) into a large glass measure (do not clean roasting pan).

Prepare potatoes and boil carrots while lamb roasts:

Pierce each potato once with a fork and bake on rack in lower third of oven until cooked through, 45 to 50 minutes.

Cool potatoes 10 minutes, then halve lengthwise and scoop out flesh. Force warm potatoes through ricer into a bowl. Stir in salt, milk, and pepper to taste.

Cook carrots in boiling salted water until tender, about 10 minutes. Rinse under cold running water to stop cooking.

Make gravy:

Skim fat from cooking liquid (you’ll have about 2 1/2 cups broth). Whisk together 1 cup broth and flour in a large bowl to make a thin paste, then whisk in remaining broth (including onions). Set roasting pan across 2 burners and pour broth mixture into pan. Boil over moderate heat, whisking, until thickened, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and season with salt and pepper.

Spoon lamb-shank mixture into a 12- by 3-inch oval gratin dish or a 2 1/2- to 3-quart shallow baking dish, spreading evenly. Scatter carrots over lamb, then top with creamed spinach, spreading evenly. Top spinach with mashed potatoes, spreading evenly to edges of dish to cover filling completely. Make swirl patterns on surface of potatoes with back of spoon, then drizzle with melted butter.

Put baking dish in a foil-lined shallow (1-inch-deep) baking pan to catch drips and bake until top is golden and filling is bubbling, about 1 hour.

Cooks’ notes:

Lamb shanks can be made 1 day ahead of assembling shepherd’s pie and chilled, covered. Bring to room temperature before proceeding.

Mashed potatoes can be made 1 day ahead of assembling shepherd’s pie and chilled, covered. Bring to room temperature before proceeding.

Shepherd’s pie can be assembled (before being drizzled with melted butter) 1 day ahead and chilled, covered. Let stand at room temperature 1 hour before drizzling with butter and baking.

Creamed Spinach

Makes 4 (side dish) servings
Start to finish: 30 min

Ingredients

1-1/2 lb baby spinach

1/2 small onion, finely chopped

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons warm milk

2 tablespoons freshly grated parmesan

1/2 teaspoon salt

Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg

Preparation

Cook spinach in 1 inch of boiling salted water in a large pot, covered, stirring once or twice, until wilted, 1 to 2 minutes. Drain in a colander and rinse under cold running water until cool. Squeeze small handfuls of spinach to remove as much moisture as possible, then coarsely chop.

This past October, my husband (hereafter referred to as Big Papa) and I were fortunate enough to be able to visit Tibet. He was completing a work project that required a trip to Beijing and I decided to join him. We talked about taking additional time for a vacation after the project launched. Initially we considered Yunnan, after a friend of mine traveled there and told us about the diverse ethnic groups who live in that province.

Looking at the map, I noticed it wasn’t much farther to Tibet. One of Big Papa’s lifelong dreams was to see the Himalayas, so I angled for Tibet. We chose Wisdom Tours to guide us (independent travel is not allowed in Tibet), because they use Tibetan guides and we wanted an authentic perspective.

Our itinerary included a few days in Lhasa, with visits to the Barkhor market, Potala Palace (where Dalai Lamas lived for centuries) and Jokhang Temple, along with stops at monasteries and smaller towns as we wound our way through the countryside until we reached the highest spot on earth, Mt. Everest. We were unbelievably excited to see Everest. All the rest was the cherry on our sundae.

Arriving in Lhasa

We arrived on September 26. The elevation at Lhasa is 12,000 feet. Climbing the stairs to our hotel room left us breathless. That afternoon, we strolled through the Barkhor market. Buddhist pilgrims, many who had traveled thousands of miles, circumambulated clockwise around Jokhang Temple, one of the holiest temples in Tibet. They spun hand-held prayer wheels, sending prayers to the heavens.

Clouds of juniper incense perfumed the air. Colorful prayer flags adorned every rooftop and waved their rainbow of mantras between every building. Monks in beet red robes mingled with the throngs of tourists. Golden rooftops of the temples rose to a crystal clear turquoise sky.

On the road to Everest

Two days later, a bit more acclimatized to the altitude, we began our four-wheel trek to Everest. On the way, we passed tiny mountain outposts. We saw villagers, faces bronzed and filled with lines from hard labor in harsh conditions. Tibetans live simple lives in humble dwellings. They are devout in their beliefs and practices which are woven through every aspect of their lives, like the warm colors in a Tibetan rug.

Visits to several monasteries were mesmerizing. Monks chanted so deeply, I could feel my chest vibrate. Rich saffron orange walls and a king’s ransom of coral, turquoise and precious stones adorned golden Maitreya Buddhas and Taras. Salty yak butter tea was served to us by playful monks who scratched Big Papa’s beard and laughed.

The food was surprisingly good. Thick, tangy yogurt laced with honey. Ginseng roots slathered with rich yak butter and tossed in rice. Hearty yak nestled beside carrots and potatoes in a tasty stew. We did not expect to write home about the cuisine and yet , here we were, praising each meal and looking forward to the next.

We headed skyward, driving by nomads herding noble yaks in remote vistas of spectacular beauty. Three days later, we arrived at Chomolangma National Park (Chomolangma means ‘Goddess Mother of the Universe’ in Tibetan). We hiked the final three miles in to base camp, at 17,000 feet. Finally, we stood facing the mountain, in all her glory.

Seeing the Goddess Mother of the Universe is awe-inspiring. I will never forget the time we spent in her shadows. There is something indescribable about being in that place, achieving a dream, traveling the distance and seeing the unimaginable. It was only nine days and, at the same time, it was life-changing.

Had we not experienced the days preceding that moment, I’m not sure it would have meant as much. Before our trip, visiting Everest was a mere dream. Now it was 29,000 feet of rock solid reality. And, we understood more about Goddess Mother by learning about her people and the land beneath her snowy base.

The Dream

Our trip to Tibet and Mt. Everest has many parallels with our adoption journey. Becoming parents is a long-held dream. The road to adoption covers many miles and is very steep. There are many obstacles en route and the unexpected greets us around every corner. With each step, we learn more. We work hard together as a team. There are times of laughter and also times when we have shed many tears. As we make our way, we craft an incredible story. A story we hope to share one day with our child as we encourage him to pursue dreams of his own.

Some might fend off a mid-life crisis by leaving the comforts of their corporate salary to jet off to a deserted island. Others might buy a Jaguar. I’ve chosen to dive head-long into my 50s and beyond by becoming a first-time parent. At any given moment you might find me holding a camera, a spade, a spatula or a suitcase. Or my little girl's hand. Adopted from Armenia, she puts the Pampers and Paklava into my life.